


Enthrall

by missmichellebelle



Series: Thicker Than Water [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Backstory, Blood, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mind Control, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Ian, Vampire Turning, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about the whole <i>ignorance is bliss</i> approach to life is that it can only last so fucking long, and Mickey’s disappears the night Ian comes home covered in blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enthrall

**Author's Note:**

> I have been dragging my feet writing this, oi.
> 
> I originally planned this scene for the original fic and then decided it was much too heavy, although it would have only been the first part and not all the backstory stuff that follows.
> 
> Please pay attention to the warning tags. I didn't use the archive warning for rape/non-con because there are no graphic depictions, just mentions, but if even that is triggering for you, I advise not reading this.
> 
> **This fic involves vampires, and therefore everything that comes with them, including blood drinking. You have been warned.**

Don’t ask, don’t tell.

It’s a pretty good rule, Mickey thinks—at least in the beginning. When Mickey is still adjusting to the whole _Ian is a fucking vampire_ thing and seeing him doing vampire things still makes fear tingle up Mickey’s spine. Which is probably a survival instinct that shouldn’t go away, but as time passes and Ian doesn’t so much as try and nip him, Mickey sort of… Relaxes into the whole situation.

Maybe feeling relaxed around a vampire is a whole new level of badass that he hadn’t even known existed until, well, he knew vampires existed.

Which is only a problem because now that Mickey’s uncertainty is gone, he has a lot more headspace to be curious. Ian’s a fucking vampire, there’s plenty to be curious about, and the worst part is that Mickey knows Ian would answer any question Mickey threw at him. Honestly, and with _excruciating_ detail (the vamp loves to hear himself talk, Mickey swears). They’re the sorts of questions that Mickey can’t really stop thinking about, to the point where he finds himself staring into the darkness at night and wondering about his vampire of a roommate.

Like some fucking chick.

But Mickey doesn’t say anything—doesn’t ask one single fucking question. Not about what blood tastes like to Ian, not about how he became a vampire, not about how long he’s been one. Not about any of the other hundreds of things he wonders about. As far as Mickey is concerned, he’d rather spend the rest of his life coming up with his own answers than have Ian give him actual ones. After all, Mickey might be better off _not_ knowing.

The thing about the whole _ignorance is bliss_ approach to life is that it can only last so fucking long, and Mickey’s disappears the night Ian comes home covered in blood.

It's early for Ian, which means that it’s not long after midnight, and Mickey has been too lazy to move from the couch to his bed. He’s half asleep and eating cold noodles from last night’s take-out with his fingers when Ian slams through the door like the devil himself is on his heels.

If Mickey had believed in vampires before meeting one, he would have figured they were fearless. After all, they’re depicted as monsters in every media they exist in, so what the fuck could be scarier than what they are themselves? But now Mickey knows a vampire, and he’s seen fear in Ian’s eyes far too often for him to keep on thinking that shit.

Fear is exactly what he’s seeing now.

“Shit.” Mickey sits up so fast that the box of Chinese that had been resting on his stomach topples to the living room floor, spilling noodles everywhere, but Mickey doesn’t really give a fuck about that right in this moment. Ian’s eyes flash to him, his movements so fast and jerky that Mickey feels strangely unnerved by them—later, he’ll realize it’s because the speed is inhuman.

Ian’s entire body is tense like a coiled spring, and the lower half of his face is slathered in so much blood that it’s still dripping down his jaw and chin to his neck. He looks so feral in that instant, with his eyes honed on Mickey like a wolf sizing up it’s prey, that Mickey is suddenly very sure that he’s about to die.

But the moment passes, and the look fades, and then it’s just Ian in front of him, looking completely fucked up over something and still absolutely drenched in blood that Mickey is positive isn’t his own, but not looking like… Like the monster he technically fucking is.

“The fuck happened to you?” It’s a stupid fucking question. Mickey knows it’s a stupid fucking question before the last word is even fully out of his mouth, but it’s out there already, so fuck it. But really there’s only one explanation for a vampire being covered in blood.

Ian seems to sag with something like exhaustion, if vampires felt exhaustion—which Mickey knows from firsthand experience that they _don’t_. It’s like all of the air rushing out of an overinflated balloon, and Mickey half expects Ian to just collapse onto the ground and never move again. But he doesn’t. He just sort of stands there.

And Mickey knows that this is one of those fucking fork-in-the-road moments. Where he can either go left or right, one way predictable and the other… Not so much. Ian is dead on his feet (no pun fucking intended) not far from the door, head twisted away so that he won’t make eye contact with Mickey, and Mickey… Mickey has no fucking clue what to do here. He’s not good at comforting a regular person, how the fuck is he supposed to comfort a vampire?

Then again, feeling fucking clueless is pretty run-of-the-mill when it comes to Ian.

“You, uh…” Mickey runs his fingers through his hair and figures if there’s any time to break their silence on this particular subject, this is fucking it. “You want to talk about it or some shit?”

Ian’s head twists too fast on his neck that Mickey’s own cringes in pain, and his eyes are wide and disbelieving as he stares at Mickey.

“What?” Mickey barks, defensively, but before Ian can open his mouth, he presses on. “Go fucking take a shower, clean yourself up. I’m not going anywhere.” He’s not sure why he says it, but apparently it’s what Ian needed to hear, because he nods and heads to the bathroom, and moments later the pipes creak with the stress of the shower turning on.

Conversations always make Mickey feel anxious. At least planned ones. They’re still fucking annoying if they happen out of the blue, but at least Mickey doesn’t have to think about them. He’s not good at this sort of shit, and he hates talking about anything that tries to get below surface level. He digs a carton of cigarettes out of the cushions of the couch and lights one to calm his nerves, and reasons that he won’t be the one doing the talking—Ian will.

Because, shit, shit, _shit_. Ian coming home covered in blood means one fucking thing—Ian _killed_ someone. And Mickey knows that he does that, but it’s one thing to think about it in that distant sort of way where he doesn’t see it and therefore it doesn’t actually fucking happen, and… This. Ian covered in some poor fucker’s blood, their body probably shredded up in an alley somewhere, not even cold yet.

Mickey’s glad he’s accustomed to shit on that level, otherwise he’s sure his stomach would be rolling.

When Ian pads back into the living room, shirtless and wearing sweats, he looks… Normal. He’s just a normal guy who had a rough night and needs to unwind. If it was any other person on the planet, Mickey would immediately ply them with alcohol, but the shitty thing about being a vampire is that that sort of shit has zero effect on you.

Well, _one_ of the shitty things.

“We don’t have to,” Ian says after a few long, dragging moments of silence. He’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch, leg’s pulled up to his chest, and Mickey’s pretty sure it’s not because he doesn’t want to stick his bare feet in old chow mein. It’s a weird fucking sight, seeing a guy of his stature all curled in on himself like a fucking little kid.

It makes him look so… Vulnerable.

“Don’t have to what?” Mickey plays dumb, pulling smoke into his lungs and feeling angry that it doesn’t calm him down as much as he wants it to.

“Talk. About what happened.” Ian’s hands curl in the fabric of his pants, and Mickey regards him with a carefully crafted mask of disinterest.

“You want to?” Mickey asks, like he doesn’t give a fuck when he actually does.

“…I don’t know,” Ian answers in a whisper. “Are you going to be scared of me if I tell you?” His eyes shift to Mickey’s, and there’s that fear again. The fear of a monster who is waiting for the torches and pitchforks, for the screaming, for the terror. And Mickey thinks of how scared he felt in that one second, how he felt rooted to his spot on the couch and how Ian could have killed him without Mickey being able to do anything to stop it.

And then he thinks of how absolutely not terrifying Ian has been in every other second that Mickey has known him.

Really, it’s fucking stupid as shit to be scared of Ian given the ratio of times he’s acted like a monster and times he’s acted like a clingy, annoying puppy. Even if he _is_ a vampire.

“Nah.” Mickey shrugs. “You like pop music and you physically can’t get high. I don’t think there’s shit scarier than that,” he jokes, and Ian’s lips twitch in a smile that doesn’t quite come to fruition. Not that it makes thing better. Mickey can continue making jokes in a half-assed attempt at lightening this whole situation, but it’s not really something that can _be_ lightened.

Ian continues to sit there in silence, picking at his pants now, and it’s so fucking weird to Mickey. Because most of the time he can’t get Ian to shut up. And that’s when Mickey doesn’t want fuck all to do with him or what he has to say, so the fact that Mickey had basically given out a formal invitation for Ian to run his mouth and he’s not is fucking jarring, to say the least.

Maybe Mickey is going to have to do more talking than he had originally predicted.

“You kill someone?” Mickey flat out asks, because he doesn’t believe in beating around the bush when it comes to shit like this. There’s no sugar coating murder, after all. Blunt is really the only way to approach it.

Ian continues to be silent, although his hands have stopped fidgeting, and he slowly raises his eyes to meet Mickey’s.

“…probably,” he finally says, voice soft. “That or close to it. If he survived, he’ll probably need a lot of blood to stay that way.” Ian’s tongue swipes against his lower lip subconsciously, and Mickey wonders if he realizes that he does that. That he licks his lips every time he talks about blood. “Was in the alley during my break, heard two people fighting…” Ian’s eyebrows pinch together as he recounts it, and Mickey finds himself gripping the couch like he’s watching a horror movie and mentally preparing for the part when the scary shit pops out. “Guy had this woman pinned to a wall, her dress hiked up, and she was crying, and I…” Ian huffs out a breath, glances at Mickey again before he presses his forehead against his knee. “I attacked him. Told her to run, and she thankfully did, otherwise she would have seen what I _am_ —“

“That’s what you meant, isn’t it?” Mickey interrupts, and Ian lifts his head to look at him in confusion. “About making the world a better place. You kill rapists a lot?”

Ian looks down, says, “Generally. Muggers, too. Anyone with a gun or a knife or an intent to hurt someone when they’re unlucky enough for me to come across them.”

And all Mickey can think about is how for a majority of his life, he would have fallen so easily into that grouping. That Ian could have stumbled upon him beating up some poor fuck who owed him money, or kicking the shit out of someone for no good reason other than he was in a bad fucking mood.

And Ian would have killed him without a second thought.

“It’s not really my call though, right?” Ian muses, tipping his head back against the couch so that his eyes are focused on the ceiling. “Playing god? Deciding who gets to live and who gets to die? I guess it’s just my way of assuaging my guilt for needing to feed off something living every so often. Rather a rapist than a mother, or a child…” He pauses, eyes slipping to Mickey. “Or a friend.”

Mickey has that same _pinned with fear_ feeling that he’s not really accustomed to. He’s been scared before, who the fuck hasn’t, but he’s faced a lot of tough shit in his life. He’s stared down the barrel of a gun before and hasn’t felt this kind of fear.

And Ian instills it in him with just a glance.

Mickey takes another long drag of his cigarette and muses, as nonchalantly as physically possible in that moment, “Never knew vampires felt guilty about eating.” Not that he knows anything about vampires, past what he’s observed about Ian, and that Ian has told him unprompted and thus was immediately reprimanded for.

“Generally they don’t,” Ian hums thoughtfully. “I certainly didn’t always.”

Mickey chews the corner of his lip for a moment, sticks his still half-good cigarette in an empty beer can as he settles more heavily into the couch. Ian eyes him curiously as he takes a deep breath and asks, “How long have you—I mean, how did you—What—” Or tries to ask, at least. “Fuck.”

Ian chuckles, amused, and turns his head fully to face Mickey. For the first time since Mickey has known him, he looks older. Wiser, almost. And he’s a fucking vampire, so he could potentially be hundreds of years old, so… It makes sense. It’s just different.

“I was born in 1830,” Ian starts. “In Ireland, actually.”

“Explains the hair,” Mickey interjects, and Ian laughs again before flipping him off. He’s smiling, almost like he’s grateful for Mickey’s comment.

“Famine hit when I was… 14, maybe 15. My degenerate of a father somehow got us all to America, my brothers and sisters and me. Me and my brother got a job in construction—loads of those sorts of jobs back then. That’s how I met Isaac, when I was 18.” Ian’s eyes seem far away as he tells a story that’s over a century and a half old, and it’s only then that Mickey realizes that Ian was human once. That it makes sense that vampires are _made_ , not born, but that he’d somehow never imagined Ian being anything but a vampire, or existing in any time other than this one.

It’s the weirdest fucking epiphany. It’s almost harder to cope with than having a vampire for a roommate.

“So that makes you, what? 184, 185? Give or take?” Mickey keeps his voice even, unaffected. Like Ian hasn’t lived nearly ten times Mickey’s own lifespan. Ian seems amused for some reason, eyes focusing back on Mickey as his lips quirk.

“Give or take.”

Their eyes hold until Mickey grows uncomfortable enough to look away, urging the conversation forward with, “So, Isaac?”

Ian’s face instantly shifts, falling blank and detached, eyes cold.

“Isaac,” Ian repeats, shifting to rest his chin on his knees. “He was… I guess _security guard_ would be the best word for it. Worked strictly at night, and I only ever saw him when I was leaving, but he’d always… Stop me. Talk to me. It was harder, back then, to feel out if someone was gay or not.” Ian let’s out a dry little laugh. “Where one guy might be down to suck cock, another might be just as ready to shoot me in the skull.” His mouth sets into a straight line, and he shakes his head. “Isaac and I sort of felt each other out for awhile, and then one night I kissed him. I don’t know where I got the courage—just wanted to and did.” There’s a strange quality to Ian’s voice, like he’s remembering an inside joke that he doesn’t think is very funny.

“Wasn’t long after that that I found out what he was. I… Took it really well. A lot better than I should have. I should have run away screaming, but I didn’t. I’d convinced myself that I was in love with Isaac, and he was in love with me, and him being a vampire wasn’t going to fucking change that.”

“Is this some sort of fucking lesson? You telling me I should run away?”

Ian’s eyes snap to Mickey, almost like he forgot he was there, and they soften—they look almost pleading, even.

“No,” is the only thing Ian says in response, the word quiet and barely there, and then his eyes shift away again. “This is me telling you how I became a vampire—how I was tricked into it. Isaac asked me to do it, said it meant we could be together forever, and I agreed without even hesitating. I didn’t even think of my family, or the life I led, or the consequences, I just… I just said yes.”

“If you said yes, how the fuck did he trick you?” Mickey’s eyebrows furrow, wondering if he missed something in Ian’s story—he shifts back through what he’s heard, but he keeps coming up empty.

Ian is silent in response, staring straight ahead and chewing on his lip like he’s thinking really fucking hard about something, before he asks, “Do you know what thrall is?”

“…like the character from Warcraft?” Mickey is pretty positive that’s _not_ what Ian means, but he makes the joke anyway, and Ian’s surprised huff of laughter that follows shatters the tense atmosphere a little. Mickey feels smugly proud of that fact.

“As in being _in_ thrall.”

“Enthralled?”

“…I suppose they mean more or less the same thing, yes,” Ian muses, thoughtfully. “Although thrall is more like… A force. Kind of like magic.”

“Magic?” Mickey deadpans, and Ian quirks his eyebrow.

“You’re talking to a vampire,” Ian reminds him, and yeah, Mickey has to admit that kind of makes disbelieving in things like magic a little stupid. But still. It’s _magic_. That’s the sort of thing you lose even the ability to believe in when you grow up, especially the way _Mickey_ had grown up. Somehow believing in things like vampires and werewolves and what-the-fuck-ever else is easier than believing in actual, bippity-boppity-boo magic.

“Fair enough,” Mickey relents, and then makes a gesture with his hand for Ian to continue.

“Thrall is mind control, but there are… Levels to it. Intensities. You could brainwash someone completely, or you could brainwash them just enough so that you don’t change who they are but how they think, how they feel, how they react. Vampires use it to make it easier to—” He stops speaking abruptly, shooting a glance at Mickey. “But thrall doesn’t work on other vampires,” Ian continues, leaving his previous sentence hanging even though Mickey can pretty much fill in the blank spaces.

After all, someone who’s brainwashed can’t scream or run away before they have their blood drained from their fucking body.

“As soon as I came to after turning, I realized I wasn’t in love with Isaac. Fuck, I was hardly attracted to the guy, and I’d fucking given up my life to be a monster with him.” It’s been over a hundred years since it’s happened, but Mickey can still hear anguish in Ian’s voice. Ian grips his hair, face hard with anger, and then it all seems to disappear on an exhale. “I got as far away from him, and from my family, as I could. Thankfully all that shit about losing your humanity when you turn into a vampire isn’t entirely true.”

“Entirely?” Mickey can’t help but ask, still processing all of the information that Ian has unloaded onto him.

“I mean. Still kill people. Especially in those early years, before doctors started keeping blood in convenient snack pouches.” There’s a sarcastic wryness to Ian’s voice, but Mickey can see the tightness around his eyes and mouth.

And he wonders how many people Ian has killed.

“So…” Ian splays out his palms in a presenting motion, turns to look at Mickey with raised eyebrows. “The prologue of my vampire backstory.”

“ _Prologue?_ ” Mickey asks incredulously. “The fuck are you, a novel?”

“I’ve been a vampire for over a century. There’s a lot of stories to tell.” Ian meets Mickey’s eyes and holds his gaze, almost as if he’s waiting for… Something. Mickey’s not quite sure what. But apparently he finds it, because when he glances away, he seems all satisfied and shit.

Mickey wonders if it’s a vampire thing or an Ian thing.

“So, uh…” Mickey rubs the edge of his mouth, figures that he’s crushed the ignorance wall into dust and there’s no pretending it’s there anymore. “That… Thrall thing. You do that?”

Ian looks genuinely surprised by the question, and then slightly uncomfortable.

“I can…” Ian looks away, biting his lip. “Use it in doses sometimes at work. Helps with tips.”

“Yeah?” The word comes out on a laugh that draws Ian’s startled attention back to Mickey. “You fucking cheat.”

Ian grins, honest and smug as per usual.

“Work with what you got, right?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “So how does that work, exactly? You make guys fall in love with you or some shit?”

Ian tenses and immediately shakes his head, and Mickey realizes maybe the whole _trick someone into thinking they love you_ is a sore spot for him. It does sound pretty shitty, not that Mickey’s ever been in love before.

“Remember how I said there were levels to it? I don’t need to weed my way into their lives. Just an hour or so of their time. Like alcohol, it wears off… But without the fucking hangover.”

“‘Scuse me. Not exactly an expert on mind control or nothing.”

Ian is looking at him again, holding his gaze, and Mickey suddenly wishes he had another beer or cigarette or _something_ that his hands could fidget with. He’s reaching for the pack he had earlier when Ian suddenly uncurls himself, like he’s finally brushed the night’s events off his shoulders (or locked them wherever the fuck he keeps all the other horrors he’s committed in his horrendously long life—not that Mickey is judging, he has his own locked box of secrets).

“I mean…” Ian seems nervous suddenly. “Do you want to see?”

“…see what?” Mickey asks cautiously, eyes flicking to Ian’s mouth instinctively, like he’ll see the long, threatening shape of fangs at any second.

“How it works?” Ian’s hands twitch against his thighs. “Thrall?”

“…you want to fucking mind control me?” Mickey deadpans, and it’d probably be stupid as shit to punch a vampire but that doesn’t mean he won’t fucking do it.

“No, no,” Ian insists, eyes wide and innocent like a misunderstood child’s, and Mickey doesn’t know how he fucking does it. Doesn’t know how Ian goes from old-as-fuck vampire with a dark past to… Well, a fucking puppy, honestly. “It’s temporary. It’ll just last as long as I’m touching you, I promise.”

And there’s no fucking reason for Mickey to say yes. Sure, he’s curious as fuck, but didn’t curiosity kill the cat or some shit? Mickey is smarter than a fucking cat.

“You brainwash me and I’ll stake you through the fucking heart, Count Chocula.”

“You realize you can’t just use any kind of wood, right?” Ian gives Mickey a look like he’s the stupidest human he’s ever spoken to, but it disappears under a surprise. “Wait, was that a yes?”

“What do you mean _any kind of wood?_ ”

“Was that a _yes?_ ”

“There are fucking stipulations on how to kill a vampire, like it probably isn’t hard as fuck already?”

“Was that _consent?_ ”

“Not only does some poor bastard have to get close enough to stab you, but if it’s not the right kind of wood he’s _fucked?_ ”

“For the love of—” And Ian is reaching towards him, placing his index and middle finger on the skin of Mickey’s cheek and Mickey goes completely still.

It’s like a flash of heat straight through him—it’s arousal, and want, and longing, and in an instant Mickey’s entire body is _aching_ with it in a way that’s practically painful. His breathing turns heavy and panting, and his cock starts to harden, and all he can do is stare at Ian and _want_. Fuck, he needs Ian to touch him more, to touch him everywhere, to let Mickey touch him back—

And then it’s gone. Like a cold shower, the feelings vanish as Ian pulls his fingers away, and he’s staring at Mickey with the same cautious gaze one might give a skittish animal. The silence stretches as Mickey’s body recovers from the shock—the feelings and thoughts might be gone, but that doesn’t mean his breathing suddenly evened out or his heart rate slowed down to a normal level—

“Okay, so maybe there are some, uh, lasting side effects,” Ian murmurs, eyes casting down for a moment, and Mickey curses under his breath.

—or that his fucking boner just disappeared.

He grabs one of the pillows he’d been lounging on and drops it unceremoniously over his lap. It’s embarrassing knowing he got a hard on from some dude touching his face.

“…that’s fucked up,” Mickey finally mutters, after he’s decided to look Ian in the eye again. Ian chews on the inside of his cheek and shrugs.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and the word hangs in the silence between them.

“Can see how it would be great for tips, though,” Mickey supplies, because yeah, it’s fucked up, but Mickey can sort of respect using powers like that for money. At least Ian doesn’t use them for… Other things. Worse things. Things that make Mickey’s stomach turn.

Ian laughs under his breath, and then he’s pushing to his feet, and yeah, Mickey can see how that would be a good place to put a bookmark in this conversation. Because that’s what it is, even Mickey knows that. You don’t open this kind of book without finishing it.

He wonders if he’ll regret it.

“Thanks,” Ian says, not looking at him, shifting his weight and rubbing his arms.

“The fuck for?” Mickey’s eyebrows pinch together, and Ian glances at him with a small smile.

“For listening.” He pauses. “For _asking_.”

Mickey huffs indignantly and crosses his arms.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” Mickey mutters, feeling warm again (in a different way, a _really_ fucking different way). He’s not… Good with this sort of stuff. It’s why he doesn’t do it in the first place, because of the aftermath. It’d be one thing if he could just do something nice or whatever and it would just be left at that, but no. People always have to make some sort of fucking deal about it.

And Ian is one of those people. Vampires. Whatever.

“Get some sleep,” Ian advises.

“Fuck off, you’re not my mother,” Mickey replies on impulse, and Ian just shakes his head in amusement and heads for his bedroom. There’s no sappy _goodnight_ , for which Mickey is grateful, just the soft click of Ian’s door as it closes. Mickey stares at it for an abnormally long amount of time (which, really, is _any_ amount of time, because who the fuck looks at a door?), and then presses back into the couch.

His head is tumbling with information that is too fucking dense and heavy to digest, and while he’s exhausted as fuck, he doesn’t see himself sleeping any time soon. It should be because of that—because of the fucked up bedtime story Ian just gave him, and Mickey convinces himself that that’s the only thing he’s dwelling on.

Not on the thrall, or what he can still vividly remember of it. The feelings and thoughts that weren’t his own but that still were, that he can still fucking _recall_ , that are still keeping him infuriatingly semi-hard.

Temporary Mickey’s _ass_.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/102519964735/enthrall)


End file.
